


Eigengrau

by missegareth



Series: Obscure Sorrows [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, spy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 03:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missegareth/pseuds/missegareth
Summary: eigengrau (uncountable):The dark grey colour seen by the eyes in perfect darkness as a result of signals from the optic nerves.Getting exposed during an undercover mission is only the beginning of Special Agent Aubrey Hyland's troubles. First he needs to get out, then to convince his superiors that he isn't a traitor, and find out why and how he got exposed. Not to mention, finally coming clean about what he feels about a fellow agent -- which is harder than all of the super-spy things he does.





	1. Chapter 1

“State your name for the record please.”

He is handcuffed to a chair as someone injects a clear liquid through his IV. Truth serum, probably, _goddamn amateurs._ Exhausted, he shakes his head and tries to look at his interrogator straight in the eye, which is quite difficult through swollen eyelids.

The discomfort the serum gives him is not on the excruciating level yet, so he can hold on by using the simplest technique: Self distraction. Count numbers backwards, count the governmental intelligence branches by their rank in the hierarchy… He picks the second one, as he stares at the agent, and asks before counting:

“What’s your clearance level?”

_The High Council of Earth and Colonial Mars has five branches of intelligence services._

“State your name for the record, please.”

“If you’re not at least level five, I cannot tell you my name.”

_Highest in the hierarchy is High Council Intelligence Committee. Shortened as IntCom. Coordinates relationships between the remaining five intelligence branches. Reports to Presidency, and Department of Security and Army._

He wants to sleep, right there and then. Closing his eyes and giving in seems too easy — minus the breathtaking pain every time he inhales and exhales. But still. Sleeping seems like the best possible option, even though he doesn’t actually have that option.

_Military Intelligence follows it. Jurisdiction: Mainly military areas. Reports to Presidency, and Department of Security and Army. No relations with the remaining four branches._

“We know you have a secondary file, I’m authorised to take your statement regardless of the classification level it requires.” The interrogator produces a paper, and pushes it through him on the table. If only he could _focus_ enough to understand what he read.

“I wanna see my handler,” he says instead, through gritted teeth. “I’m not gonna speak another word without talking to him, first.”

_Third is Interuniversal Intelligence Agency, abbreviated as IIA. Foundation: 2056. Jurisdiction: Earth, Colonial Mars. Reports to Presidency of High Council and IntCom. Mostly oversees Colonial Mars._

“That’s not possible.”

He stares without saying anything else. His vision gets blurrier by the second, and the bright lights reflected on the shiny white walls doesn’t help. He would fold his arms if he could, but the restraints are too short to allow that. So he waits, as open to danger as the day he was born, he just waits.

_Fourth comes Conciliar Intelligence Bureau, or IntelCon. Reports to Presidency, Department of Security and Army, and IntCom. Jurisdiction: Entirety of Earth, minus Military zones. Oversees sectoral intelligence activities._

The interrogator, a twenty something junior from god knows how manyth one digit floor, rolls her eyes before opening the file in front of her. “Aubrey Sterling Hyland,” she says as if to build up a trust. “I have your file, your _actual_ file. Director Davidson wants me to interrogate you, and I’m given full authorisation to hear your classified life story.”

“If you have my file,” Aubrey replies, almost too hazy. “Then you know my life story.”

“It doesn’t say why you sold the mission though.”

“I didn’t.”

She scoffs as she goes through the pages through his file. Even in his drowsy state Aubrey notices the huge blacked out sections, and shakes his head. “I didn’t talk, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Everyone eventually talks.” She says this matter-of-factly, rather than as an accusation. “They could’ve broken you.”

“They couldn’t have.” He pauses. “Does it say who raised me in that file?”

She nods briefly, and returns to the first page. “Melanie Markowitz,” she replies. “I’ve heard her name before.”

“Probably from the training centre. She was _that_ good as a trainer. Good enough to have the centre named after her.” He pauses again, trying to take a deep breath. It hurts, he knows it hurts, but somehow he feels it _less_ than before. “Now imagine being raised by her. Truth serum? Seriously? That was my fifteenth birthday for you.” Aubrey leans back as much as he can. “Now, I wanna see my handler first.”

He closes his eyes. _Never sleep while you’re in contact with the enemy,_ Madam Markowitz’s voice rings in his ears. _Always cover your six._

The door opens after a series of beeps, and then closes with a satisfying locking noise.

_Fifth: Sectoral Intelligence Bureau, SectInt. Jurisdiction: Individual sectors. Reports to IntCom and IntelCon. Oversees intelligence activities in sectors. Also: My employers._

Does his employer count as an enemy?

*

As he waits and waits and waits in the silent room, he starts counting. Tricks he learnt when he was a child, while spending his time participating in the most impossible drills. _“I want you to get inside this room, and wait until I come back. Don’t say a word, or you’ll fail the mission.”_ He would stand inside an empty room, and wait. _Wait._ He found the relativity of time out pretty quick. That was how he started counting seconds, which became a habit later on.

Around five thousand, Aubrey closes his eyes to stop. More than one hour is enough to understand he’s not going anywhere, and nobody is coming in. The decision is to left him alone until he begs them to talk apparently — no problem. _No fucking problem._ He closes his eyes, leans back to make himself comfortable, and starts counting again, from zero.

Closing his eyes — a voluntary act of disabling one sense — helps him focus on the details. _Revisit what happened. Evaluate everything._ He was brought to the medical, and they woke him up for interrogation. _They want you to tell why you sold them out._ But they _had to_ know what happened somehow, right?

_Go back. What did happen before they found you?_

He called Nicholas, and told him he didn’t do anything wrong. That he was in a car, with only one bullet in a gun he found, and that he was keeping it in case his captors find him. Nicholas told him the entire Bureau was looking for him, and it was going to be okay.

_How did they know you escaped?_

Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.

_How did your captors know who you actually were?_

Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.

_Deep breath. Cough._ His captors called his mother. They told her they had him, and they would deliver him if she agreed to their terms. _Think. You realised something wasn’t exactly right there._

The phone was on speaker.

The secretary answered the phone. It wasn’t Holly Graham — his mother’s secretary. That didn’t mean anything — she could’ve taken the day off.

Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-four.

They _never_ called his mother. _They had the wrong person as your mother. Where did they get that information?_

Sixty-four. Sixty-five. Sixty-six. Sixty-seven.

_How did they know you escaped?_

_How did your captors know who you actually were?_

Aubrey slowly opens his eyes back.

“Someone inside the organisation leaked the information.”

Instant beeping releases the lock, and Aubrey turns his eyes towards there. The interrogator from before walks in, trying to stand firm in front of him.

“Are you ready to talk?” She asks.

Aubrey narrows his eyes. “I want to see my handler first.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“Then you can keep me here for days if you want. I want to see my handler first.”

_Someone inside the Bureau is working with your enemies. Possible candidates?_

He closes his eyes again. “Wait,” he says, before she can walk out of the door. “I’m gonna tell you what happened, on one condition.”

“You’re not in a position to determine conditions.”

“You’re not gonna interrupt me. You’re not gonna ask me any questions. You’re just gonna listen, and take notes.”

“That’s easy,” she frowns. But she looks hesitant as she comes closer to the table. “What made you change your mind?”

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging. The pain pierces his drug induced haze like a knife for a second. “I’m just gonna think out loud, and you’ll be there to record it, that’s all.” He lowers his head and looks at her. “And I’ll feel less insane talking to _someone_ instead of myself, so there’s that.”

She pulls the chair back, and sits down. “I would like to remind you that I’m authorised to shoot you if you try to escape.”

“Miss, I have a lot of broken bones, not to mention some ribs. The only reason I’m not screaming because of pain is that they basically replaced my blood with painkillers. Trust me, I barely have the energy to keep my eyes open.” He pauses, serious, as always. “Shall we begin?”


	2. Chapter 2

It was nine months ago. Me, and a couple of other agents were assigned to an undercover mission. We were supposed to penetrate an organisation that were planning a coup against the High Council. The intel was solid, they got weapons they needed from Blackburn & Co. as usual.

As usual, we took the general mission briefings together with the other agents. The assignment came directly through IntCom — which was somewhat normal — and IIA — which was not normal under any circumstances. We didn’t know why, and but it was so covert that even the General Administration didn’t know about it apparently. IntCom had picked the agents, and already prepared the identities; all we had to do was playing our roles.

I was a disgraced military member named Daniel Atkinson. The files said I was discharged because I had a fight with my superiors, and the details were classified. I was to tell a convincing story about how I detested that we were basically the Council’s toys, and how we should take the matters into our own hands. The royals were taking all the glory and luxury as we were thrown to military zones. It was easy.

My personal assignment was to climb as high as I could in the hierarchy to see who were the connections. See, them buying weapons was the last step. Neither of the intelligence branches didn’t know anything about the leaders, they got the guns through a proxy — which meant they had to be careful, and experienced. I was equipped with some _junk_ but verifiable intelligence. I was going to tell them what I knew, gain their trust, and go as deep as I could.

I didn’t think about it back then, it was just a regular mission for me. I went undercover in many organisations, from low-tier drug cartels to illegal gun deals. Anything. I never thought it’d take me nine months to do what needed to be done — and to be fair, it would’ve taken longer, if I wasn’t exposed.

I closed my business here, said goodbye to my only contacts in this building — my handler, Christopher Galloway and my frequent desk agent Nicholas Walker. Walker didn’t know anything about the mission, he just knew I was gonna be completely radio silent for a while; and that I sometimes had a cat get stuck in my apartment. He was surprised when I gave him the actual address I lived in, but still agreed to check my apartment for cats every week or so.

Galloway knew the mission, and he gave me all sorts of advice like he always did. He was even there for my _branding —_ do you know what branding is? Since my cover was in military, I had to be _physically_ fitting for it as well. The branch they enlisted me in usually got matching tattoos, a tiny star on their right arms. I got the same stuff — nanotech, but still a tattoo.

Then I was ready to go. I flew to the Military Zone I was supposed to be in, and activated my new Bio-ID through the little device they gave me. After that, I was no longer Aubrey Haller or Aubrey Hyland, I was just Daniel Atkinson.

The zone I went was a neighbour to a Conciliar base, right around Sector Delta. Not too far away from Beta, which was a great relief for me. It would have drawn attention otherwise. I was there for my supposed discharge, and then I was to move on to the Conciliar base. They were around that area mainly, per the intelligence. No big deal.

On my second day in the Military Zone, I witnessed a bar fight. Retired soldiers were fighting with each other. It wasn’t hard to understand what exactly was the subject: The Council who threw them away after honing their skills for years, unnecessarily. They were bitter — they expected a lot more as soldiers. They wanted to be as legendary as the ones fifty years ago were. Peace screwed them up.

Some of them were okay with it, they really believed that they protected their Sectors, serving the system that raised them. The others were furious, as one of them threw his glass at the tv where High Council President was making an announcement. _How dare they,_ they asked constantly. _How dare they just leave us here?_

I joined their angry group from afar. _How dare they,_ I said, _they leave us here as they run everything?_ See, I was already in my role. _We_ were supposed to be leading this planet to new fronts. Colonial Mars under Council? _No way._ They supported me, cheered for me as I spoke. I was believable, how couldn’t I be? I told them the story of _them_ tossing me out, just because I spoke my mind. They started cursing the Council. One of them, an old man with still-ginger hair, sized me up.

“We should overthrow them,” he said, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, shut up Steve,” one of the rest replied. “He’s _always_ talking about it, but no action!”

I nodded. Didn’t even blink as I stared into Steve’s brown eyes — no losing eye contact there. He had to understand that I was _tougher_ than the rest. I was _ready_ for all of it. I could’ve had a couple of more drinks and gone ahead to steal a tank, to overthrow the Council.

“He knows what I’m talking about,” he said pointing at me and ignoring the groans coming from the rest. “Don’t you, son?”

I told him yes, yes I knew _exactly_ what he was talking about.

“Where’re you going after this?”

“To the Conciliar base,” I replied. “My superior was kind enough to enlist me in housing there.” I spoke like I was spitting. Steve laughed.

“ _Kindness,”_ he replied. “Fuck them!”

We raised our glasses to that, and kept drinking. To be fair, I let them keep drinking — I was going _way_ more controlled than they were. I’m sure Steve did the same thing. He had to. I pretended to be a mean drunk, insulting them for living here in their cocoons and not actually doing something. They were startled, except for Steve. He just insisted on looking at me without saying anything.

The next morning, he asked me if I was serious on doing something. I said I was. Apparently, he had my background checked via his _army buddies._ I don’t know to whom he asked what, but it worked quite well. He took me to a group of other friends of his, meeting in a dark basement.

It was weird. No phones were allowed, there weren’t a single electronics inside and the street cams looking at the directions coming there were jammed somehow. You’d think I was entering into Crystal Sphere, to have a meeting with the President. They searched me thoroughly to make sure I wasn’t a spy and wearing any wires or tracking devices. They even made me leave my gun outside. I said _yes_ to everything, did what they asked me to do.

By that, my mission started earlier, and in a different place, but I had no complaints. Finding a way was the hardest part of the mission, and I took completing it early as a sign of luck. After all, this was the greatest risk I’ve ever taken for a mission, and you know what they say. _Audaces fortuna iuvat._

Fortune favours the brave.


	3. Chapter 3

Aubrey pauses, to his interrogator’s surprise. She raises her head from her notes, and gives him a glance as he takes deep breaths and coughs. “Sorry,” he says, still in the same monotone voice. “Doctors say it’s good to take deep breaths and cough.”

“It’s alright,” she replies. “You need anything?”

“Some water would be okay.”

She presses a button on her tablet, and in at most half a minute, someone comes in with a soft plastic cup filled with water. He thanks the man, and drinks it as she continues to watch him like an eagle.

“Can I ask some questions?”

“I said no questions,” Aubrey replies when he finishes the water.

“Easier than going back once you’re done,” she shrugs. Her stylus is perfectly balanced on her tablet as their eyes meet. “Can I?”

He sighs. “Go ahead.”

“You mentioned giving your home address to Nicholas Walker, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why him and not any other desk agent?”

Aubrey startles. “What do you mean?”

“Why do you trust Walker this much?”

The wounded agent sighs again. “We’ve been working together for the last three years,” he replies. “Shouldn’t I trust him?”

“That wasn’t what I meant. Your file, as Aubrey Haller, shows that you constantly requested him when you worked with different agents. What’s your connection to Walker?”

He nods. “You’re trying to ask if he’s an accomplice to any of my actions. No. He’s not. He doesn’t even know my secondary file. Although I’m guessing he’s being questioned as well?”

“Yes,” she confirms. “Everyone who’s ever had any connections with you. Including your handler.”

Aubrey takes yet another deep breath. “I understand. Anything else you want to ask?”

“Yes,” she checks her notes. “I really need to understand your relationship with Walker, though. If he’s innocent as you say, the more information you give me, the easier his job gets in interrogation.”

“Understood.” He straightens his posture, even though it hurts him. The painkillers’ effect starts to fade away, but he’s determined to keep it going until he cannot handle the pain anymore. _Shift your focus._ “I usually don’t do observation missions, but they were Galloway’s way of forcing me to socialise. I don’t see anyone outside of my missions, and upper management thinks I’m wasted on observations— but undercover missions usually mean you have to be someone else than yourself. Galloway wanted me to be _myself_ with someone, even if it was over the phone. I’ve never even met Nicholas face to face.”

“Nothing outside of missions?”

“We kept contact, of course, but usually through mails, messages or rarely video calls. Mundane things. Happy holidays, happy birthdays…”

“According to my colleague’s notes he said you helped him through an ordeal.”

“Did he tell your colleague what the ordeal was?”

She reads the entire note silently. “Yes. Why?”

“Because I know you’re gonna ask about it, and it’s not my story to tell. But if he actually told it…”

“He did. I promise, I’m not lying. What did you do for him?”

“He was blackmailed by an ex, nothing compromising, more like an unsuccessful attempt to get back together. I found the guy, it wasn’t that hard, and coerced him into leaving it alone. No big deal.”

She makes a confirming sound, as she takes notes on her tablet. “Great. When it comes to your handler…”

“Christopher Galloway.”

“Mmhm. He returned from retirement _the same year_ you came back in. Any idea why?”

“Aside from him and my father being close friends?”

“Message received.” She looks at Aubrey’s file, as he waits silently for her to ask something.  “Were you and your father close?”

“I didn’t have actual relationships with any of my parents,” Aubrey replies. “I saw my father very rarely, once or twice a year — if he bothered to come by on my birthdays. My mother, never. Except for the times I was assigned to her security detail, but that’s very recent.”

“And your father died.”

Aubrey pauses before answering this question. Briefly. “Correct.”

“How old were you when it happened?”

“Twenty. My second year in Academy.” She notices how his voice _never_ changes as he speaks. “It was Christopher Galloway who gave me the news. He basically took me under his wing after that.”

“So you were close?”

“I cannot say I’m close with _anyone,_ but he is the closest thing I have to a family.”

“And he knew about this _very covert_ mission?”

“True. I never questioned it, a mistake on my part. I just assumed it was because he had a high clearance level.”

She takes a few notes. “For now, these are my questions. Can you continue on telling the rest of the mission, or do you need a break?”

He coughs, deeply.

“Should I go on with every single day of my nine months there, or do you want to hear the important parts?”

“Important parts, please.”

“Then let’s continue.” He frowns. “By the way, is it okay if I asked your name?”

She smiles for the first time in that day. “It’s Special Agent Amy Anderson,” she replies. “You can call me Amy.”


	4. Chapter 4

Joining in the _actual_ organisation wasn’t as easy. Steve and his little gang were just the first step — first of many. They tried to break me in all the ways you can imagine, including strapping me to a chair and beating the living shit out of me. I kept telling them the same story, and cursed them for treating me like that. _How dared they_ , I yelled many times. I was an honourable man, just trying to get revenge from the people who destroyed his life. _How dared they?_

They finally believed me. They treated me, tended to my wounds, and took care of me until I got better. They, especially Steve, apologised many times over. A necessary precaution, they told me. They had many spies trying to breach their organisation before. I found that doubtful, mostly because I never believed any Bureau or Agency would’ve sent people amateur enough to be broken by these people.

I told them I had some valuable information with me. Folders, files I stole. About the Council’s possible plans for a coup. Not too much, I had to admit, I was afraid that I’d get arrested. I just gathered enough information to prove how the Council used everyone, how they didn’t care about our freedoms.

“Why?” One of the guys asked, the military doctor. They called him Donny. “Why would you steal such an information?”

“To leak it,” I replied. “I want to hurt them, and I’ll do that by waking everyone up.”

They seemed to enjoy that. Donny was still skeptical, even after the whole showdown. “Why do you hate them so much?” He asked.

“They ruined my life,” I replied.

“How?”

“Aside from getting me discharged because I disagreed with their methods? I was going to get married, man, my girlfriend left me. Threw the fucking ring at me, she couldn’t be married to a traitor she said. A _traitor._ I’ve been serving to this Council and its army for _years,_ and she called me a fucking traitor, just because I disagreed. Why do _you_ hate them?”

He didn’t tell me his reason, and Steve just ruffled my hair. “Leave the kid alone, Donny,” he said, laughing. “Don’t you see his wound is still fresh?”

Donny, to his credit, never asked me anything after that day.

Theirs was a small cell. Mostly for recruiting, as I understood. Aside from Steve and Donny, there were three more people.

Eleni was a hacker, she was responsible from getting the personnel files from Military network.  She was the youngest, around twenty-five. I’ve heard that they cut her scholarship as she was going towards a degree, and she couldn’t finish the school. Street smart, she was. Making her way to her estranged father’s army buddies wasn’t too hard for her. She was in it mostly for food and shelter. She couldn’t care less about the government.

Donny was always protective of her, side eyeing me whenever I talked to her. We became close friends in a short amount of time. I saw her with a girl couple of times, her girlfriend. She made me promise not to tell the others, because they were too busy with overthrowing the Council; they didn’t want her to be distracted. I promised her, and this is the first time I’m breaking the promise, honestly.

Logan was the bodyguard, he did most of the beating. Discharged because of anger problems. Steve lured him in, and Logan only trusted Steve in that group. I caught him often enough looking at one of the remaining four of us in the basement and cracking his knuckles. I had to admit I was scared of him. I didn’t want to get on his bad side.

The last person was Sami. He was the only one who quit on his own accords. Bored of being sent to zone from zone, he wanted to end it. He was an adrenaline junkie, even at his forties, and the only reason he enlisted was to get in some legal fights and not to get in trouble if he killed someone. He told me, quite sadly, that he didn’t kill anybody, or have any good fights. He had seen his fair share of traitors, though. He was disappointed that none of them were _crushed_ to bits. I asked him if he thought what we were doing was treason. He said no.

“The Council lost its function,” he said. “They cannot clean this planet from the rotten ones — those who should be killed. Those bloody Hepburns, they got greedy. We’re gonna be doing a service to people.”

That was a common theme amongst many of the members. They weren’t against the system, they were against the people who had started it in the first place; and then did everything they could to secure their places in it. That’s how they saw it — and I know you want to know what I _actually_ feel to find out if I was compromised. Let’s take it out of the way before we go further.

Shortly: I don’t care. I’m not being paid to think and comment on Council policies and its historical aspects that led up to somewhat of a dynasty.

The long version: We vote for them. I usually go to the poll and vote for a Hepburn, like many on the planet do, because _we don’t care_ collectively. We’re fine by them taking care of everything, just like they took care of the problems people had more than a hundred years ago. Going ahead, imprisoning or killing them would not change anything. We know they’ll keep the system running, so we keep them there. We don’t want to get our hands dirty, and we need someone to blame for stuff that’s going bad.

I’m behind my words, it’s become somewhat of a dynasty. Wherever you go, there’s a Hepburn, running everything. That does not affect my life, that does not affect many of the people’s lives. They’re each other’s harshest critics, and when they oppose each other; people vote for the most capable amongst them. That’s why we didn’t have another war in _a hundred years._ Not even a small one. I’m fine with military feeling obsolete, I’m fine with not _needing_ a military.

And yes, you read my file and you think it’s weird, given my military background. I was never a soldier. I was trained to be one, correct, but they never planned me to actually be a soldier. I was always _meant to be_ a spy. The military schools were only to solidify my training.

Let’s move on.

Steve helped me go to the Conciliar base, and introduced me to a couple of people there. _“One of us,”_ he emphasised. “Take good care of him.”

That was his way of saying I was _in it._

The same night, a few hours after Steve left; two people from the lowest branch knocked my door. It was apparent — I was gonna go through a secondary interrogation. A man that was almost twice my size, and a young woman with frizzly hair; carrying a small bag with her. When I opened the door, she simply asked if I was Daniel Atkinson, and when I confirmed; she just nodded slightly.

That was the signal, apparently, because the big guy went _hard_ on me. Of course I struggled, I couldn’t have just let them do whatever they wanted to do to me. It would’ve drawn attention. My barely healed wounds opened again, it was a mess. They took pity on me in the beating. Although, I must admit, I played the wounded soldier role far too well. I was _sobbing_ through half of it. I sobbed through my entire life story, I sobbed when I told the girlfriend story…

She produced a small syringe from her bag, and as the guy held me down, she injected it. It burnt, I guessed it was another truth serum — one that I had encountered only once. It was so painful, they couldn’t have questioned me as I was constantly screaming. This time, though, my cries — actual, _genuine_ tears — didn’t help. They were pretty unfazed by that.

They asked me everything, again. I was seeing double, triple even. I couldn’t even form coherent sentences. I told the story again. Not skipping a detail. Every word they heard meant the same thing as before. _Not the same words._ That would’ve shown that I memorised everything — therefore, fake.

She must have been convinced, so she changed the subject. Asked me about what I could bring to the organisation. I told her, while shaking and clenching my jaw through the pain, that I had intel. That I already was in the intelligence office, and stole some information. _Documents._ Bargaining for the antidote in exchange of documents crossed my mind, but I didn’t say anything about it. I told her where the documents were, and as she went to my luggage to find it; we stayed alone with the big guy.

The big guy asked me if I was okay, multiple times in that time period. If I was able to breathe, if the pain was too unbearable. I didn’t answer his questions, mostly because I couldn’t — you can trust me, I’m not exaggerating. It’s a dangerous test they put every recruit through, and after I gained their trusts, I was sent on similar missions along with the same big guy. I was more merciful, giving smaller dosages; but I’m not gonna deny. It was borderline torture — which, as you know, _never_ works.

That showdown there determined my entry position at the Organisation. She took her time verifying the information I gave her; while I was having troubles breathing. In the end, she gave me the antidote, ordered big guy to put me down on my bed, and then congratulated me before leaving the house.

Two days I stayed in bed. Without eating anything. I dragged myself to the kitchen to get a few bottles of water, once, so that I wouldn’t die of dehydration. When I finally got the power to get up; they called me.

“Congratulations,” the woman on the other end of the line said. “You’ve proven to be a true asset to us. Go to the cross section at Eleventh Street and Brown Avenue. Your assignment will be waiting there.”

“When?” I asked.

“Immediately,” she replied; and hung up. Easy for her to say. My muscles were still on fire, I was still going through the worst hangover imaginable, yet, I did what she said. In the cloudy weather, I had to wear my dark sunglasses because of the sensitivity but I still went over that street and met my main contact in the operation: Leo Hopewell — from the Strategical Units of this very Bureau.


	5. Chapter 5

Amy pauses him, and even before he can protest, she shakes her head.

“It’s been four hours,” she says pointing at her watch. “That’s enough for today — I’m gonna ask them to relocate you to the medical.”

“Not necessary,” he shakes his head, and starts coughing again. “I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine. I’m guessing the painkillers wore off?”

“Yes, but I’m fine — let’s get this over with.”

Amy smiles sympathetically. “Rest well, Agent Hyland,” she says before opening the door. “And, one thing. I believe you’re innocent, for what its worth.”

Aubrey, as expressionless as usual, replies.

“Thank you so much, Agent Anderson.”

A few minutes after she left, two security guards along with a medical attendee come in. The attendee, a young guy in blues, looks worried as he orders the guards to release him immediately.  Folding his arms as he waits for the guards to act, Aubrey notices he’s shaking just a little bit. Young, unsure of the next steps — his eyes move too fast to look _everywhere_ to grasp the place he’s in. His pose implies he doesn’t want to be seen as a threat, but defiant. Not working, of course, given he’s just a skinny blonde kid and the guards are probably former military. There’s no way he could’ve seen as a threat, but on the other hand, nobody would’ve bought he’s a defiant rebel.

The guards do as he says, and it’s no big deal for them to transfer Aubrey to the wheelchair. Attendee checks his IVs, and following a sigh, speaks softly:

“Does it hurt too much?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Aubrey assures him. “I went ahead with my breathing and coughing — I think that helps.”

He nods. “You have a line of visitors waiting for you.”

“And I’m not allowed to see them—“

“No, you are — haven’t they told you?”

“Told me what?”

The attendee smiles, though his long bangs hide his brown eyes, it’s clear his smile is genuine. “You’re cleared of all charges — there were arrests all day around.  I think they’re gonna need to debrief you tomorrow as well, but I can assume it’ll be done while you’re in your bed.”

Aubrey frowns. “What exactly is going on?”

“I don’t know the details — but I think they’ll explain it to you.”

He wheels Aubrey out of the room, one guard in front of them, and one guard behind. To be completely real — all Aubrey wants to do is _sleep,_ maybe for years, and then disappear and sleep some more.

_There’s still someone working against you. In this building._

He knows it to be true, but he just cannot bring himself to _care_ anymore. Maybe if he rests a little bit—

“We’ll take care of the rest, thank you.”

Aubrey raises his head to see a _crowd_ waiting for him. Five or six of them, all giving him the worried looks. A guy in whites steps in to take control of the wheelchair, Aubrey just shakes his head.

_Get some alone time. Fix your perspective._

“No,” he says, his voice hoarse. It’s hard to talk through a throat that now feels like sandpaper, but he still manages it just for another three words. “I don’t want.”

The attendee grabs the holds of the wheelchair harder. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracks with nervousness. “I’m under direct orders to—“

“We know,” he puts his hand on Aubrey’s shoulder, causing the agent twitch and move his shoulder to get away. The man in white doesn’t get the message. “The situation has been changed—“

Aubrey raises his hand, although all the screams from his muscles tells him not to. The attendee goes a few steps back to rescue Aubrey from the iron grip, as the agent speaks:

“I don’t want to see anyone. Leave me alone.”

There’s something _wrong_ that he feels. Deep down, somewhere in his throat _,_ he knows there’s something abnormal about _everything_ that had happened to him. He needs to solve it, but him _alone_ should do it, and he for sure, doesn’t want anyone around him.

The hall becomes silent as the attendee wheels him to the room, and helps him get on the bed. Replacing one of the IVs with a different thing, and renewing the other one, he nods like a student got the answer right. The bed is in an upright position — which seems no better than sitting at a chair, but at least more comfortable, with a place to put his head on. And also, soft pillows. Soft sheets. _Comfort._

“The doctor will be here in a minute, to check you and make sure all the sitting there didn’t hurt anything.”

Aubrey nods. “What’s your name?”

“Ned,” the attendee replies.

“Ned, nice to meet you… Can you do me a favour?”

Ned narrows his eyes. “Depends on what the favour is… I got this job pretty hard and I would hate to lose it.”

“Nothing dangerous — see, if an agent named Nicholas Walker comes in here while I’m asleep and if you’re around when he comes…” He coughs, and continues. “I’m sorry. Can you please tell him how _sorry_ I am?”

“Sure,” Ned says. “No problem.”

“Thanks. Should I keep awake until the doctor comes?”

“At least you wouldn’t wake up unnecessarily.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem, at all. Take care, Agent Hyland.”

He leaves as silent as he can, and Christopher Galloway _immediately_ comes in. Aubrey doesn’t respond — honestly, just staring at the ceiling with his brain basically _shut down_ is so much better than trying to focus on something.

“Aubrey?” Galloway whispers.

“ _Hmm?_ ”

It’s an audible sigh from Galloway, as he makes his way to Aubrey’s bed; and puts his hand on the younger agent’s hand, ever so slightly. “Your parents are here, _both_ of them,” he murmurs, and _this_ catches Aubrey’s attention. He merely turns his eyes to Galloway, but says nothing.

“That’s the reason I’m here. They insisted they wanted to see you first. I couldn’t have let that happen — _one visitor at a time._ ”

“Thanks,” Aubrey manages to reply. “I don’t… I don’t want to see them… Not right now.”

“I know… I really do.” He pushes Aubrey’s hair out of his eyes quickly, and smiles. “I’m gonna stay with you tonight, is that okay for you?”

Aubrey blinks for a few times, and it’s enough for Galloway. He drags a chair, and then sits there, with an admiring look in his eyes. “It’s over now,” he murmurs. “It’s gonna be okay… _Everything’s gonna be okay_ …”

“What happened, sir?”

“No big deal, we can talk about it later.”

“I want to—”

“You need to sleep first.”

As he says that, the door slides open and the doctor walks in. She looks cold, but as she moves towards him swiftly, and proceeds checking him, it’s apparent she’s quite efficient. She asks if it hurts when she does some stuff, and most of the time the answer is yes, so she pulls a syringe from one of the drawers to inject something, probably a painkiller, through his already attached IV.

“Can you reach to the buttons under the bed?”

He tries, and nods.

“If anything happens — if you suddenly feel worse, even momentarily — I want you to press them, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, get some rest.”

He closes his eyes immediately, and it feels like falling through a never ending dark tunnel. A dark, warm, and comfortable tunnel that goes just _forever._

*

He wakes up without opening his eyes, after god knows how many hours. The not so quiet argument above his head annoys him, but he allows himself a few minutes to listen and understand what it is about before opening his eyes and, maybe yell at them to be quiet.

“You almost got him killed _,_ Alastair.”

“We were watching him, he was gonna be fine—“

“ _You almost got him killed, Alastair.”_

“You don’t need to repeat yourself, I get your point.”

“No, you don’t, because both you _and_ Adel are here, acting like you care about him. He doesn’t want to see you, or her, so _get out_ maybe?”

There is a silence as Aubrey feels his ribs hurt from all the effort he makes for not saying anything, or even breathing loudly. He feels a weird pulse hammering his insides, making him clench his jaw to the point of feeling it hurt through all the painkillers going through his veins.

“You know I care about him, Chris.”

“You have a _weird_ way of showing it.”

After a brief pause, Alastair Hyland replies with an audible hurt: “You know why we did what we did.”

“Like I said. He doesn’t wanna see either of you. Get out.”

Aubrey hears the footsteps, and the door closes.

“You’re awake, aren’t you?”

He opens his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he replies as quiet as possible.

“How much of it did you hear?”

“You told him he almost got me killed. Starting from there.”

Christopher Galloway sighs. “I know he actually cares about you.”

“Sir—“

“I know he does. The entire reason he got himself _‘killed’_ was to protect you, from a situation like this. But he’s a fucking moron, and I wanna punch him until I can knock some sense into him. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“It doesn’t matter—“

“It matters. Nick told me what you told him, when you called him, in that car. It matters, because you _never_ valued your life, because you _never_ saw anyone value your life, or you. That stops, right here. Okay?”

“It’s really not necessary. I’m just doing my job. I don’t need coddling or anything.”

“It’s not that, it’s _really_ not that Aubrey — _none_ of the agents in this building would feel the same way, or do the same thing as you. They all know they have a duty, but they also know they have a life. Unlike you, who would lay his life just because some idiot in a suit ordered.”

Aubrey lowers his eyes and waits before saying anything.

“Aubrey…”

“Sir, I really do understand you’re concerned for me. I’m fine. I’ll be fine, trust me.”

Galloway nods as his hand brushes Aubrey’s. “I trust you,” he says. “I don’t trust the others.”

*

This time, he’s not strapped to a chair. Agent Anderson is on a comfortable chair right next to his bed, and it’s completely in a more different tone than his first debrief. _No longer a suspect, but a witness._

“Are you ready to tell the rest of your story?”

“How much of it do you want to know?”

She checks her notes. “We got your reports about your time inside. Fast forward to the day you got burnt, and what happened afterwards.”


	6. Chapter 6

The day I got burnt… Three days ago. It was a normal day — okay, I think I need to explain what a normal day was under those circumstances. We weren’t a terrorist cell as you can see in the movies, we didn’t spend all day sitting in a house and cursing the Council. We usually did whatever we wanted to do, until we got a call for a duty. I usually got observations, they told me I could blend in very well — so they made me follow Council workers and members.

For the day I got burnt.

It was a lazy day, I was spending it with someone… I think I should give his name for the accuracy, right? I was with Leo Hopewell that morning. The intricacies of our relationship are already detailed in my daily voice reports, but for the sake of context: It started five months after I got in, we were working together — he was my babysitter, until they really trusted me. We got close. Mostly physical. Emotions weren’t a factor.

That morning he got a call. I was half asleep, and he didn’t talk too much. He took a long, hard look at me, and nodded. I had no idea what was going on, but I knew it couldn’t have been a good thing. He hung up the phone, and told me to get dressed and that I was assigned to a new duty. That was a bad sign: They always called _me_ if I was assigned to something — not Leo.

I took a quick shower, got dressed and made sure I got an extra gun on me, and let him drove me to the location. It was an open field with nothing in it, not even trees. Before I could reach to my gun, he used his taser on me. I lost consciousness, in a very short while.

*

When I opened my eyes, I was strapped to a chair, my nose hurt more than anything and I couldn’t breathe properly. My right eye was swollen, and I had _no_ idea where I was. All I could think of was that I somehow got myself exposed, I slipped up somewhere, made a mistake. There was no other option — no other logical explanation.

I evaluated my situation. I was tied to chair with plastic handcuffs — easy to get rid of. The broken bones would create a problem, but I knew my adrenaline could kick in time for me to ignore the pain. The guards — there were three in the same room as me, probably more outside. Three in the room were armed, I could’ve probably knock them out and get at least one of their weapons.

There was a table, full of devices and syringes — in addition to the handguns I could’ve also retrieved some knives probably, it was a good sign. I could’ve saved myself.

So I stayed still, and tried to remember where I slipped up. I knew the ropes, I’ve been on longer undercover missions, and I’ve _never_ slipped up. Not even once. Everything has a first, I know. But I was _extra_ careful, and _extra extra_ careful not to look careful. I know I did everything right.

One of them turned to me. “We know who you are,” he said. I was thinking, _yeah, this is the end. They’re just gonna shoot me in the head, and that’ll happen before they try to make me talk._ And then he said my name. My full name, the real one. “Aubrey Sterling Hyland.”

Then I froze.

If they knew I was an agent, they should’ve known me as Aubrey Haller — in every single paperwork about this mission states my name as _Haller._ I don’t even know why they keep a separate and secondary file. All operations I take at this agency is signed by Aubrey Haller. I’m not allowed to use my real name — which is, actually one of the other reasons I’m so sure I didn’t slip up.

I work at an intelligence agency, and nobody even knows my ID here is fake; and a terrorist organisation apparently found out about my real name.

Then we went through the whole _you’re spy, let’s make you talk_ ordeal: Truth serums, then stuff to inflict physical pain, some beatings, and then more truth serum. It didn’t work. One of them got a phone call. I couldn’t focus on what they said, I wasn’t coherent. Then they lifted my head up.

“So, your mother works for the Council,” the one who held my head up said. “What’ll she think when she hears her little boy is in the hands of the _bad guys_?”

“She won’t give a damn,” I said.

“We’ll see about that,” he replied. “Make the call.” He was staring at the other guy, and he nodded. The guy dialled a number, and someone picked up the phone. I knew Holly Graham’s — my mother’s secretary — voice. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t a woman. I know all of her secretaries, none of them are male. It was a man that answered the phone. I couldn’t recognise the voice, or the speech pattern.

I heard my mother’s voice. She asked who it was.

“We have your son,” the one holding the phone said. I’m not sure if it was the exact thing they said. I was way too distracted by pain and dizziness to understand stuff they said, or the name they called her. I don’t remember who they thought she was.

Although I know I found everything else _so_ weird. She sounded weird. Worried, shaking… Antithesis of what she is about.  I worked with her, the only time I heard her voice shaking was the first time I was assigned to her security detail — and that was with _anger._ A worried version of her does not exist. Even in one’s wildest dreams. But there she was, almost _begging_ them to leave me alone.

She was faking it.

“We want you to do something for us,” he said.

“Not before I know he’s alive,” she replied. “Alive and well.”

They brought the phone to me. “Talk!” They ordered. I had no idea what to say. _“Talk!”_ They repeated, the one who was holding my head up pulled my hair so badly I had to scream. “Talk, or I’m shooting you before mommy can save you.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” I yelled, at the end. “I didn’t sell out—“

They punched me in the face.

“So, will you do what we say?”

“Yes,” she said. “Let me talk to him.”

“You just did.”

“I wanna _talk_ to him, not listen to as you punch him into a brain aneurysm. Privately. Not as you listen it through a speaker.”

They looked at each other. They were confused. They had no idea what to do. The one with the phone looked at me, “Nothing she can say can help him escape,” he said. “Look at him, he’s pathetic.”

“Okay,” the one holding me replied. “But any games, and we’re shooting him in the head.”

They brought the phone to my ear. “It’s okay,” she said. _My mother._ “We know you didn’t expose yourself. It’ll be okay.”

I didn’t say anything. They took the phone away, saying they were going to deliver the list of demands soon. I got another punch in the face, and they left me alone. I was dizzy, not enough to pass out — so I continued observing even more. When they were changing shifts, how many different people were there…

They changed shifts every three hours, nine of them in total. On the twelfth hour I broke my handcuffs, and stayed in position. When the shift changed, I lowered my head and waited for them to check on me. When one of them came there, I headbutted him, grabbed his gun and shot the two of them. Then I broke the legs of the chair, got rid of the ankle cuffs, and started running after grabbing the remaining guns’ magazines.

After incapacitating all of them, I went for a phone, and car keys. Any keys. I got what I was looking for; and drove away. Until I had no idea where I was. Until I finally was defeated by the pain. I parked the car, checked how many bullets I’ve got left, and threw myself onto the backseat. I was pretty sure it was all over, I wasn’t breathing properly, my lungs hurt… I knew I had internal bleeding, and GPS told me the closest hospital was at least half an hour away.

I _knew_ nobody was coming to save me.

I called Nicholas then. To say goodbye. I couldn’t think of anyone else to call, I just wanted to make sure he _knew_ I wasn’t a traitor. I called him. I didn’t expect him to be at the offices, it was a Sunday after all.

“Hey, Nicholas,” I said. I’m not sure how I sounded. “Um, I’m kind of in a jam here—“

“I know,” he replied. “We all know. The entire Bureau is looking for you.”

“I’m not a traitor.”

“Aubrey—“

“I don’t know what you’ll hear about me in the coming hours, or days, but just know that, none of it was my choice. I’m not a traitor.”

“I know. I promise. I trust you, Aubrey. We’ll find you. We’re getting close, I promise.”

I coughed. I coughed long and hard, and told him one thing.

“I have only one bullet left. I don’t know if they were following me, or if they are close to me—“

“You won’t need a bullet, we got your location.”

“If they come, I’m not risking. I’m not going back. If one of them comes, I’m shooting myself.”

He was surprised. There was silence at the end of the line for a while.

“Aubrey…”

“I’m serious. I can’t risk them breaking me. I know _way_ much about the operation, I cannot be allowed to get into their hands.”

“ _WHO CARES?!_ Were they able to break you?”

“No. I didn’t say a word—“

“See?!”

“—but they knew everything. Every single thing about me. And what if they break me? It’s not worth it, I’m not gonna take the risk.”

“We’ll find you before they do. And, Aubrey, when you come back—“

“— _if_ I come back—“

“I’m taking you out to dinner. Okay?”

For the second time in my life I felt like I was going to… I still am not sure. To laugh, or to cry? So, we kept talking. _He_ kept talking. I thought he was probably tracking my location, but then, that thing takes only five seconds of connection. No, he was actually telling me about… Everything. How he had to take out the cat seven times out of my apartment, how angry he was at me for not letting him know about the dog beforehand… A lot of stuff.

Then they found me. The Bureau. It took them at most thirty minutes to transfer me here with a helicopter — which was truly unexpected. I didn’t even think they cared. See, I didn’t even believe when Nicholas told me the entire Bureau was looking for me. It still doesn’t make sense — why would they? All in all, I was a non-performing cog in the gear. It would be easier for them to leave me out there, and die on my own.

They didn’t let me die. They kept telling me everything was gonna be okay.

So I’m here.


	7. Chapter 7

Agent Anderson smiles as Aubrey looks at her, expecting a question.

“You really expected the Bureau to leave you to die?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the son of Alastair Hyland, and Adelaide Radcliff as it turns out. But you knew that beforehand, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Then why would you think that? Why would you think we wouldn’t save you?”

Aubrey frowns. “I just would be collateral. A field agent, died on a field. Why bother?”

“Are you an idiot?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re basically _espionage royalty_. Why would they leave you behind?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

He sounds genuine as he asks that.

“Okay…” She nods. “Neat… Do you wanna ask anything?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.” Aubrey says. “How was I cleared?”

Amy takes a deep breath. “As far as they told us, the operation you and all other agents were in was a cover for the _real_ operation, which was finding out the traitors in the upper levels. And they did. They arrested Director Davidson for being the mole for SectInt. You need to ask someone with _higher_ clearance for the full story.”

“Oh, I see…”

“Thing is, Davidson was the one who ordered for your interrogation. He told everyone you were a traitor, and then Alastair Hyland walked in, getting Davidson arrested. I found out about it when I got out of your interrogation.”

“I understand. Thank you, Agent Anderson. Do you have any other questions?”

She shakes her head. “Rest well, Agent Hyland.”

As she gets up to leave, Aubrey raises his head. “Agent Anderson? We’re out of record, right?”

“Yes?”

He coughs for a few times, raising his hand to apologise. “You knew Leo Hopewell, I presume?”

“Mmhm,” Amy looks at anywhere other than Aubrey, visibly uncomfortable. “Briefly. We worked a few cases together.”

“He mentioned your name. Once. He called for you.”

She waves her hand and continues walking to the door. “It doesn’t matter—“

“In his sleep.”

Amy Anderson freezes, her hand on the handle. She grips it really tight, and her lips quiver as a hint of a smile appears on her face. “That doesn’t,” she begins. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know,” Aubrey assures her. “I just wanted to let you know. Kind of a _just so you know_ thing. I am sorry if I went over the line there.”

“No, no, it’s not that.” This time, her attempt at a smile is more successful. “It’s that… I mean — he’s a traitor.”

“I know, that’s the reason I’m telling you, because it was in my reports. He didn’t call you with full name and surname, but I asked him the following morning. He told me it was someone whom he worked with a long time ago. Tracking you down was easy after that.”

“Oh…” She purses her lips. “Thanks for the heads up.”

*

He looks different from last time Aubrey saw him. His hair is longer, and more stylish than his then-usual short cut. In the fifteen year they haven’t seen each other, he also seems to gain a bit weight — downsides of a desk job. The always dark coloured suits are replaced by a grey one, with no tie accompanying it. More than all, he doesn’t seem so _sure_ of himself, which is a bit startling to observe in a man who was mythified long before his “death”. The natural arrogance everyone mentions when they talk about him is gone.

She, on the other hand, looks the same. Not that the last time Aubrey saw her was a long time ago, but still. Her shoulder length dark hair isn’t an inch longer or shorter, a few more wrinkles around her eyes don’t make a difference. The dark pantsuits and white shirts Aubrey usually see her in are replaced by a skirt-blouse combination, grey ones.

 _The Family Reunion,_ as Ned insisted on calling happens as he prepared Aubrey in the morning, is not a _reunion_ in reality. It’s more of a _“Our plan got you almost killed, so we’re sorry_ ” visit — which is totally fine by Aubrey, really. As he told Christopher Galloway over and over again, he doesn’t expect anything at all.

But when Head of High Council Intelligence Committee Adelaide Radcliff, and the newly risen from dead Director of Interuniversal Intelligence Agency Alastair Hyland stand before him, Aubrey feels a weird urge clawing his insides. His pulse rising and his blood flowing so loud that he can’t hear anything as he stares at them — a feeling he’s totally a stranger to.

See, he doesn’t even remember if he ever _ached_ for a family. He internalised the fact that mother and father have important jobs, and they can’t be in his life because of it when he was three. But now, seeing them there _together,_ brings some issues that were well hidden beneath his mind and heart and soul and whatever.

“Nice to see you alive,” Alastair starts, a bit hesitant.

“Same as you, sir,” he replies, trying to stand more straight in his bed. There’s a distance between them — as if they’re different sides in an argument. It feels less like a hospital room with _them_ in it, it feels more like a conversation Madam Markowitz would’ve had with his teachers. Aubrey can sense the disappointment reeking from _his parents,_ as they stand there avoiding all sorts of eye contact.

“You should know how sorry I am,” his father finally looks at Aubrey. “It was never our intention to put you harms way.”

“I did my duty, sir,” he replies. “ _Whatever the mission takes, whenever, wherever._ ”

“And we are thankful for it,” Adelaide steps in. “Not to mention, proud.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“So, we’ll be offering you a promotion.”

Aubrey hesitates. “A promotion?” He repeats, unbelieving. “For what?”

Alastair and Adelaide look at each other for a brief moment, and then they turn to Aubrey at the same time. “You do mean _to which position,_ right?” Adelaide asks.

“No, I meant what I said,” he shakes his head. “What did I do to deserve a promotion? From what I’ve heard, I was in the worst shape amongst other agents who were in this operation. There are agents who are better than me for any kind of promotion. Why promote me?”

“Because I want you to work with me,”  Alastair says, sharp. “It’s obvious your talents are wasted in Sectoral Intelligence.”

“I’m actually fine with my position here.”

“I can imagine. Nevertheless, you’ll be working in IIA.”

 _So much for the offer,_ Aubrey thinks as he nods. _Is resigning an option?_ There’s no way on earth he’s gonna tell them that maybe he needs a holiday first, but still, _he definitely needs a holiday first._

“As what?” He asks, instead.

“Deputy Director of Intelligence Gathering Department. You’ve proven yourself excellent in that area.”

“Okay, I understand.” He pauses briefly. “Thank you.”

Alastair and Adelaide share a glance, and they return their attention to Aubrey.

“Do you want anything to ask?” Adelaide asks, sounding kinder than she ever did.

 _Probably millions._ “Actually, one thing.” He looks at both of them. “What exactly happened?”

It’s a sigh from Adelaide and, a brief moment of breathlessness from Alastair.

“When we got a report from Martyn Blackburn concerning a large amount of weapon and ammunitions purchase, we started investigating the people behind it,” Alastair begins. “Teams at Global Surveillance discovered a web of relations, but they couldn’t fully uncover the top players. In the sixth month of our investigation, Adelaide suspected foul play.”

“A mole,” Aubrey states.

“One, or more.” Alastair replies, with a small nod. “She let me know about it, and I suggested doing what most terrorist organisations did: Divide people in cells, nobody knows who the other cells are. We started changing information that went to different cells. Minor, but impactful stuff. And we came up with a narrow suspects list.”

“Where does our operation come in?”

“There are different agents from different branches, including IIA. We didn’t tell anything to any director until it was _too late,_ to see which agents would’ve got burned.”

The agent inhales. “So you knew all along that _someone_ would’ve got exposed.”

“Precisely. Of course we had everyone tracked, but things went haywire when the leak turned out to be from Sectoral Intelligence. We had three potential moles in the Bureau, and we couldn’t be sure which one it was — and also, we needed to save _you,_ because for some reason they took you off the grid.”

“Davidson knew who I was.”

“Not exactly. Your secondary file in the agency says you’re my son, but we kept your mother’s name since you were born.”

“But they wanted to call my mother,” Aubrey reminds him. “Not you.”

“That’s because until today nobody knew that I’m alive. Nobody knew I still worked for IIA, let alone as the director, except for Adelaide, Chris and Council President Hepburn _._ But when you got arrested for treason… Things changed.”

A new feeling raises its head in Aubrey’s heart — only a glimmer of… _Hope?_ A part of him tells him that his father risked _a lot of things_ to save _him_ , which doesn’t sound _right —_ why would _anyone_ do that?

 _Collateral_. That is what he was supposed to be. A name on the wall if he’s lucky, or not even that.

Alastair doesn’t seem to mind Aubrey’s thoughtful expression as he continues: “We gave different identities as your mother’s name, to our three different mole suspects. They were _rather_ casual conversations, thanks to Chris. Mainly, how your mother found out that you got exposed, and was blowing Chris’ phone to ask him what could’ve been done to save you. We directed all the numbers of our covers for her, to her house number. And started waiting.”

“I don’t remember whom they thought to be calling.”

“It’s okay, we knew. Then we realised it was Davidson all along. Took few days or so to clear with Presidency, Army and Security, and of course with Law and Justice. Rest of it was the arrests.”

“I understand,” Aubrey says. “Thank you so much.”

“We thank you,” Adelaide speaks. “Rest well, Aubrey.”

They both wish him well before leaving, and he feels relieved of the heavy thing that blocks his airway. Taking deep breaths and coughing to ease the pain a bit, although it hurts _way_ too much as he does them, he leans back into his pillows.

That clawing urge to punch some walls remains in place.

The door opens again, and with curiosity carved in every line of his face, Ned walks in. He closes the door so quietly, and almost runs the distance between Aubrey’s bed and the door; all the while asking how it went.

“They offered me a promotion.”

“Sweet!”

“Then basically told me it wasn’t an offer, and I would have to take it.”

“What more do you want?” He smiles wide. “Congrats!”

“Thanks,” Aubrey replies. “That was about it.”

“No hugs or anything?”

“Of course not.”

Ned sighs, and shrugs. “Well, I did.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Nah, it’s not your fault.” He smiles again. “By the way, your boyfriend dropped by.”

Aubrey raises his head. “My boyfriend?”

“You know very well that I mean Nick Walker.”

“Nicholas is not my boyfriend.”

“We all heard your debrief.” His smile turns into a smirk. “So did Nick. I can imagine him not liking the part of Leo Hopewell.”

“He wouldn’t care, why would he?”

“Usually _boyfriend_ implies something mutual, Agent Hyland.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. There are no mutual things there.”

“He asked you out, like, _literally._ There are mutual things there. You’re the spy with observation skills and all, it’s not a hard thing to observe.”

Aubrey stays silent as Ned gives him a meaningful look.

“Okay, you’re an idiot,” Ned groans finally.

“He dropped by and what happened?”

Continuing on the meaningful glance, Ned explains: “He wanted to see you, but your made-from-ice parents were in here, so I told him it’d take a while. He said he could come back later, and I passed your message to him. Although he might have thought it was for Hopewell thing.” He pauses. “Wait…” Tilting his head to left, he catches Aubrey’s eyes. “It was for that, wasn’t it?”

Aubrey shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“It does. I mean. Agent Hyland, are you sure they didn’t hit your head as well?”

“Ned…”

“Tell me. I think I’m on my way to earn the title of _your friend._ I deserve to know it.”

“Alright… It was for it. But it was also for the fact that I lied to him.”

Ned rolls his eyes, patting Aubrey’s hand sympathetically. “I don’t know nothing about your relationship, what I know is from your debrief — which is the number one topic around here, don’t give me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any looks.”

“You are… You _definitely_ are. Wow, I was told that… That you lacked emotions and all, but here you are, a rainbow of emotions.”

Aubrey sighs. “The Tin Man thing, right?”

“And they called you that to your face?”

The wounded agent leans back, with a painful expression flashes on his face. To Ned’s immediate alarm, he just raises his hand to stop him. “I’m okay. Do you wanna listen to the story behind that nickname?”

“I kind of assumed, it was your codename.”

“Oh, no… It’s not. It’s what the desk agents called me, with the exception of Nicholas. They call me _The Tin Man_ because they usually work with me in observation missions, and I’m not very talkative in their standards. Or, I don’t show emotions.”

“I feel like I’m not gonna like the ending.”

“I was working with another desk agent that week, and there was something wrong with the mission — I was calm as usual, and she was distraught at me being too calm. She thought she muted her microphone, and yelled _‘fucking Tin Man’_ over it. I heard it, but didn’t mention it to her. I asked Nicholas about what it meant, after the mission was over.”

“What did he say?”

“He said Iron Man was also basically a tin man, and maybe they meant I was strong and all… I didn’t buy it and he knew I didn’t. Then I asked for _their_ interpretation, not his.”

“That’s too cute.”

“If you say so.” Aubrey’s expression freezes. “Do you think he’ll come back?”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because of the…” He coughs. “Because of the _Leo Hopewell part.”_

“Naaah, he’ll be back. He seemed concerned about you.”He frowns. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just that… It rings weird.”

“What rings weird?”

“Never mind. I’ve already talked too much about myself. First time, in my life.”

Ned nods. “Probably because of the escaping-the-death thing. Also, I’m proud to be the person you opened up to.”

“Huh,” Aubrey says. “Can I ask something?”

“Sure.”

“Why are you being friendly with me? You don’t even know me. I mean, yes, you’re on your way to earn the friendship title but…”

He purses his lips, and lets a breath. “I was there through your entire _interrogation,_ making sure you didn’t die in their hands. I was told if I ever told you this, you’d break my trachea; but I must admit — I felt sorry for you. Undercover for nine months, going through hell in a portion of it, and then there’s the “I’ve been dealing with interrogation techniques since I was fifteen” thing.”

“Oh…”

“Don’t get me wrong, along with my friends, we think you’re goddamn kickass. But I don’t know, I just wanted to befriend you.”

“Sometimes people get what they want,” Aubrey leans back. “Like you.”

Ned laughs. “Oh, come on. You’re a super spy, I’m a twenty six year old junior doctor here — I know we’re never gonna be friends. Thanks though.”

“I’m relatively new to this whole _friends_ thing,” he confesses. “But I can say you’re ticking all the boxes.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Okay, maybe not _the nicest,_ but definitely in the top three.”

“Glad to hear that.”

“When it comes to the matter at hand, though,” Ned tilts his head, blinking his brown eyes multiple times on purpose. “What’re you gonna do about to gain your lover’s heart back, Agent Hyland?”

“Except for telling him the truth and hoping it’ll be the formal beginning of our relationship? Nothing. I have this belief that no matter what we do, the universe sets itself out. And, Ned?”

“Yes?”

“Please, call me Aubrey.”

*

It’s the day he’s discharged that he sees the man he wants to see the most. Something grabs his stomach and squeezes it — or at least that’s how Aubrey feels as he fixes the sleeves of his already fixed jacket.

Unlike Nicholas Walker, he’s not wearing a tie — after Christopher Galloway threatens him with _literally_ burning the tie, he doesn’t want to bother all the fire alarms, but some part of him feels almost naked, strolling through Bureau corridors.

The elevator doors slide open and they stare at each other: Aubrey with bruises on his face, and Nick with a hesitant smile and a slightly raised left hand. Aubrey feels like he’s walking on zero gravity as he makes his way towards Nick, whose black hair covering his dark eyes. Hundreds of first sentences go through his head, but when he finally stands a few steps away from him, everything stops.

Just stops.

“Hi,” he breathes.

“Hi,” Nick replies. “How are you?”

“Fine, perfect — they discharged me from the Medical today. I am forced to go through checkups almost every two days, but still.” He nods. “I want to thank you, Nicholas.”

“For what?”

“For…” Aubrey sighs. “For talking me through that day. And I’m sorry. For lying. I would never do that, if it was up to me.”

“You’re a spy, Aubrey,” Nick waves his hand, but it looks like a nervous tick more than a sign of nonchalance. “Lying is half of your job.”

“Not to you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“And I would like to mention that there was nothing emotional between me and Hopewell. It was what mission required, and I did it for the mission.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

Aubrey’s heart skips a beat. “I just wanted to let you know. For honesty. And, to emphasise that I wasn’t compromised in any way.”

Nick slightly raises his head. “Okay. Totally. Sure.” Then he bites his lower lip. “Heard you’re being promoted for a job at IIA?”

“More like I’m being forced to take a job there,” the admission is easy. Almost relieving. It’s not the first time Aubrey goes on a missionthat he doesn’t actually want, but the first time he feels the liberation to tell that he does not _actually_ want it. “But, yes.”

“So, if you want, we can go to that dinner today. You probably won’t have time later.”

The agent takes an involuntary step back. “Are - are you serious?”

“Yeah, why not?” Nick laughs. “I promised, didn’t I?” His laughter becomes louder when he sees the confused expression on Aubrey’s face. “For an excellent spy, you’re terrible at picking up social cues, Aubrey.”

“I just don’t get—“

“Get what? That I have a crush on you?”

Aubrey’s jaw drops. “Are you _now_ serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I mean, I am the last person to have a crush on. I’m the Tin Man, remember?”

“Even the tin man got a heart, one that he had all along.”

He shrugs. “Yes, I’m not sure if I fit into that narrative.”

“Okay, you’re being ridiculous — but you need to tell me if you don’t feel the same way _now._ I don’t want to lead myself on too much.”

“I called you, didn’t I?” His voice is shaking, and Nick lowers his head with a smirk. “I didn’t call anybody else. I called _you._ ”

“And what does that mean to _you_?”

Aubrey pauses. “It means that I care about you… More than I care about other people in my life. Not that I have too much of them. That’s the reason I’m actually hesitating — I’d probably screw up a relationship.”

“Oh, we can make it work.” Nick puts his hand on Aubrey’s shoulder, and Aubrey doesn’t twitch or push him away. It takes all of his control not to do that, but he does it — to teach _himself_ something: that he doesn’t want to push Nicholas away, in any way. That he wants to keep him there, until _he_ doesn’t want to be there anymore.

They make their way to the elevator, to get a lunch, and then a dinner.


	8. Chapter 8

A fancy restaurant, a corner table for two with good food and a bottle of wine in front of them. Live music comes from a piano, soft but not lost in the crowd’s low chatter. Yellow lights are dimmed, giving an unnatural softness to their surroundings, but it’s not annoying. It’s more _trying_ to be calming than being calming, or trying not to be a big deal while feeling like it’s supposed to be. But not annoying.

The nicest way possible of tying their lunch to the rest of the night.

To be honest, he still doesn’t have any idea what kind of places Aubrey would’ve liked more, but it seems romantic enough, and Nick is certain that he didn’t hear anyone die from a bit romance.

Aubrey still takes his time for occasional deep breathing and coughing, which earns them a few uncomfortable looks from the closest tables, but they don’t seem like they care. Nick, finally earned the opportunity to ask everything in his mind, wants to start from the easy ones.

“Okay,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Speed round of questions, no avoidance this time, you promised. Favourite movie?”

Aubrey frowns. “I don’t think I have one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I usually don’t watch movies. Not exactly my cup of tea.”

“Tv show?”

“I reallydon’t have time for watching any.”

Nick mutters an _unbelievable_ under his breath, and raises his eyebrows, opening his eyes wide. “You must have a favourite song, at least.”

“Prelude and Fugue in E minor, Bach.” Aubrey sounds just a tiny bit proud of himself, and Nick really can’t tell if it’s because he’s in awe of his own music taste or because he has an answer to the question. “Usually takes the edge off after long days and nights. But Prelude in B Minor arrangement is always my go-to whenever I can’t sleep.”

“Favourite book?”

“Fall of an Empire by Thomson Gray. History book, not a novel — about the political climate back before the Hundred Years Wars.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a full blown nerd, Aubrey?”

“Didn’t talk long enough with anyone for them to realise it,” Aubrey replies, his lips slightly curving upwards. “Or, honestly.”

Nick takes a sip from his wine, followed by a thoughtful sigh. “Do you _ever_ do something for yourself? _Just_ for yourself, just because you want to do?”

It’s a delight observing Aubrey, observing the guy who usually does the observing. Every mimic he makes, feel unnaturally raw: The way he lowers his head and locks his greenish-brown eyes on his plate makes Nick feel like he’s watching a nature documentary that zooms into an animal, confronting its hunter.

“Aside from sleeping, nothing. In a very long while,” Aubrey replies, finally. “I really didn’t have time for anything else other than being an agent. That’s one of the reasons I tried to avoid your questions about my tastes.” His voice is steady, monotone. Almost as if he’s talking about a target, and not himself. “I really don’t have any good answers to give you, didn’t have in a long time.”

“What about before that? In your teenage years?”

“I played guitar,” he replies. “It was a small quartet with some of my high school friends. Every once in a while we would bring them out, and play songs — together, or taking turns. Haven’t touched one in a long time, though, so excuse me for my future refusals of playing for you.”

Nick laughs. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t ask. Although it ruins my serenade-based marriage proposal dreams.” He sighs deeply, but laughs even more, not being able to stop himself at the end. “So, what’s next for you?”

“Except for getting used to my new job?”

“Yes. Except for anything related to your job.”

Aubrey shrugs, and takes a sip from his wine. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll go on a quest to find a heart for the Tin Man.”

“I think,” Nick mutters. “This Tin Man has a heart, it’s just that he doesn’t know it; and he doesn’t know how to use it.”

“Also possible…” His eyes briefly shift towards the exit. _Don’t spill your vulnerabilities,_ a voice inside his head buzzes, but then he closes them for a second and takes a deep breath. “In that case, I’m gonna need to learn how to use it.”

“That won’t be hard,” Nick assures him. “Now, to the questions…”

And Aubrey answers them, _every single one of them,_ and realises maybe he isn’t the Tin Man — and maybe he just needs to learn how to be _human_.


End file.
